This is a prose tale about the great superhero, SNOGGO
(as told in the first person by SNOGGO to his amanuensis, Edna)

*'You can't have "Jew",' I said.
'Why not? It's a perfectly good word. Are you anti-semitic or something?'
'Jew has a capital J,' I said.
'Not necessarily. I've used it before.'
'Not with me you haven't. There's the dictionary. Look it up.'

Jumbo grudgingly picked up the Shorter Oxford and looked up "Jew". He sniffed loudly, slammed the dictionary shut and removed the tiles from the board. His replacement word was a sodding disaster.

'That's twenty-four points you've cost me with your nit-picking, you *******,' he said through gritted yellow teeth, his flabby body shaking with rage. 'The J was on a triple letter score.'

I sneered derisively and laughed long and loud, making Jumbo froth at his ugly fat nostrils with anger.

'Watch this and weep, Jumbo,' I said, playing out all seven of my tiles onto the board to create a stunning word: UNZIPPED. 'The Z's on a double letter score and it's all on a triple word score, so that's 90, plus 50 for playing all my tiles, 140 in total and the end of the game,' I declared in triumph. Jumbo was caught with 14 in his hand (remember: he still had the J) and thus I, the great SNOGGO, became Greenwich Scrabble Champion for the 25th year running. Not only that: but 25 consecutive defeats in the final for Jumbo.

Jumbo roared in frustration as he saw his hopes of taking the coveted 24ct gold "Queen Anne" cup away from me, SNOGGO, dashed to the ground yet again. And, by centuries old tradition, 25 consecutive victories meant the priceless cup was now mine to keep for ever. Jumbo's scream of uncontrollable, incandescent rage could have been heard as far away as the Vanbrugh Hill Municipal Waste Disposal Centre.

'******* you for all ******* eternity,' he bellowed unsportingly as he waddled out of the cheering hall. In so doing he flouted the gentlemen's convention of always staying to take part in the closing ceremony. He missed seeing me, the great SNOGGO, receive the shining gold cup from the gnarled hands of the Lady Mayoress, the Hon. Mrs Snotte-Wragge, who whispered in my ear 'Fancy a quick **** later, back at the mayoral parlour, SNOGGO dear?' For the fifth year in a row I told her to go and get stuffed as I didn't go for ugly old bats with arses on them like a double-decker bus.

Later that evening, as I sat in the splendid Georgian surroundings of Snoggo Manor, cradling the gold cup and admiring the row of 25 Championship certificates on the walls of my elegant dining room, finishing off my second bottle of Bollinger Grand Cru '89 and stuffing my 18th oyster down my happy throat, I heard a knock on the door. Who could that possibly be at nearly midnight?

It was Jumbo, my fat defeated foe. He looked downcast. 'SNOGGO,' he said, 'I've come to offer my apologies for my inappropriate behaviour earlier. You deserved to win, you are the finest scrabbler in all of Greenwich. I have come to offer you the hand of friendship and to invite you to my humble home for a midnight snack to celebrate your stirring victory.'

'Jumbo,' I replied, 'that's uncommon civil of you, old man. And your timing is excellent, as I've just finished my apéritif and was on the verge of kicking Mrs SNOGGO, my new 17-year old Thai mail order wife, out of her hammock to make my supper. So what's on the menu, squire?'

'Well,' said Jumbo, 'I was thinking of pâte de foie gras - naturally made by Mrs Jumbo using our own force-fed geese, with a bottle of Château d'Yquem '78 to start with. Then perhaps a kilo of blood-red filet mignon avec pommes frites, washed down with a rather good magnum of Brouilly '99. Then there's Mrs Jumbo's famed cheeseboard with a tumbler full of vintage port, followed by a dozen crêpes suzettes, a few petits cafés, a monster Armagnac and a giant Havana each.'

I considered the proposed menu carefully before replying. 'Sounds quite good to me, Jumbo,' I declared, glancing over his shoulder at the Bentley waiting outside. I could just see the peaked chauffeur's cap of the diminutive Mrs Jumbo peering myopically over the leather-covered steering wheel.

And so, having told Mrs Snoggo to tidy up a bit whilst I was out, I went off to dinner with Jumbo. In all our 25 years of Scrabble rivalry I had never once set foot into his house, so I was eager to check out what sort of lifestyle he enjoyed. Once inside Jumbo Villa, I cast my eyes over the luxurious furnishings with an expert eye, evaluating their immense worth and rarity with incredible perspicacity and knowledge.

'Not a bad pad you've got here, Jumbo,' I conceded. 'Not in the same class as Snoggo Manor, of course, but still ****** impressive.' He was visibly flattered by my compliment.

'A glass of sherry while we wait for Mrs Jumbo to serve us?' queried Jumbo jovially. I sniffed at the huge portion of delicious amber nectar appreciatively. 'Lustau Amoroso Bodega Marquès de Mierda '42?' I guessed instinctively. Jumbo nodded. '******* spot on, SNOGGO,' he admitted in stunned amazement.

I took an enormous gulp and felt the alcohol hit me like a slam in the abdomen from Cassius Clay's butcher and more vicious brother. The room spun and I closed my eyes in resigned delight.

When I came to I found myself hanging unclothed in chains on the wall of a dank cellar. My head was pounding and I felt distinctly below par. I looked over my shoulder and beheld Jumbo standing there with a sjambok in his hand. He was stark ******* naked, naked as the day he was born, and I have never seen anything so repulsive in all my life (with the sole exception of that incredible day when, as a child, I caught my paternal grandparents bonking on the Persian rug in the Great Hall at Snoggo Manor on Christmas Eve). Jumbo’s huge pendulous ******* sagged over his bloated fat belly, which itself hung so low his genitals were mercifully hidden from my view. He was a ******* monstrosity.

The tiny Mrs Jumbo stood to the rear of the cellar, also naked, pallid and with her public hair died a shocking pink. She was a skinny freak, a vision of *** Hell. I noticed the tattoo on her belly. It showed a depiction of the crucifixion which I felt was in dubious taste, especially with Jesus sporting an enormous *******.

What I, the wonderful SNOGGO, suffered in the next few hours was truly indescribable, so I will only summarise it. After a seemingly endless whipping from Jumbo (assisted by Mrs Jumbo, but her puny lash strokes were almost pleasurable), accompanied by their combined frenzied cries of demented hatred and loathing, I was forced to suffer the supreme humiliation. Jumbo mounted a set of fine Regency library steps, positioned his Hellish lumpen body behind me and unceremoniously inserted his tiny ***** into my outraged ****. Oh the shame! Oh the shame!

‘O Jesus Christ help me!’ I yelled in rain and pain. And suddenly a voice spoke unto me. 'O great SNOGGO,' it intoned, 'thou needst not suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune so needlessly. Only have faith in me, the great loving Jesus, and I shall give thee strength to deal with thy ******* awful tribulations.'

It was a miracle! SNOGGO could and would be saved! Quickly I mumbled a couple of Ave Marias remembered from my youth as a leading mutual masturbator in the chapel choir, and I silently promised a quick twenty thousand quid to the local faggotty priest ******* fund, and my chains fell to the floor with a blast of heavenly thunder. Halle-*******-luliah!

'Right, Jumbo you fat ****,' I snapped, 'you have ******* had it.'

And with one mighty blow of my right arm I smashed him against the wall. His huge hideous body crumpled as he slid to the floor, blood oozing from his fat gob. I gave him a ****** good kicking in the face and in the heart region and shortly he went to meet his maker, with a sickening grunt and expulsion of *****.

Then I turned to the horrified naked ugly skinny tattooed Mrs Jumbo and said: 'OK, *******, where's my ******* supper?'

She shrugged and headed upstairs to prepare the meal I had been promised by Jumbo earlier, as I was seriously hungry by this stage. Little did she know I would be obliged to put her out of her misery later. Or if she were lucky, I might offer her a position as unpaid toilet cleanser chez moi.

Yes, it was yet another stunning victory for the fabulous SNOGGO, thanks to timely divine intervention for which I am very much obliged.

And don't forget my luscious 17-year old Thai mail bride would be waiting to give me a really good ******* once I got back to Snoggo Manor. Either that or I would give her a good belting and send her back to her grotty poverty-stricken village with a demand for a full refund, chop chop.

***** girl. god beast.

I think
Life's amazing &
I hate everything

at the same time.

I live in a state of mind.

this is
pure ******
self loathing.

cloven toed beast thing
clothed in the evening
jovially feasting
on the seedling souls &
the gold seeping thru
holes in the ceiling

cold concrete beings
with a billion eyes
that could **** em all
with the things they seen.

I can't 'just believe.'

There's way too much
wrong with me.


Just how I like it.

I'm Tired of people telling me that I should smile in photographs
My resistance has got nothing to do with
An Attitude problem
or my attempt at
Appearing acutely fashionable
This is just the way I look
Most of the time
Shouldn’t what we choose to record
At least strive for Authenticity?
I'm just not interested in selling myself
Into the acceptable family comfort mode
Having my split-second cheery face sink in
Against The kitchen wall's
"calming" comfort scheme
To be doted on by ageing female relatives
and jovially mocked by visiting casual friends
If anything I don't want my past to be
Looked upon at all

Maybe it's the old story
of leaving home and the urge
To re-invent oneself
To Block out the old experiences, the old embarrassments
Freeing yourself to embark on a fresher tirade
of critical self-assessment
To be finally and victoriously
Free from the unsettling confines
of childhood
To engage yourself completely
in the waking,walking,working
Nightmare of maturity, responsibility
and devastating ambition.

Blue floor, blue chair
flowered curtains and
a view of fields
beyond the window.

Bed, unmade.
What history does
that hold, I wonder?
Radio plays, chatter, soft footsteps.

The Big Man arrives.
Kind, gentle, dark eyes.
Soft voice, good hands.
Pulls no punches.

This is what will happen.
He says, do I understand?
The words, of course I do.
The impact? Let's see.

The gas man arrives.
Banters jovially.
Nice of him to try but
I'm beyond all that.

He knows how to put us out
but his experience
of the experience?
Minimal. I asked.

Always throws them, that.
When you ask them if
they know what it is like.
So easy to be glib without pain.

This risk and that.
Do you understand,
they ask once again.
Sign here. "Good luck."

Never had a surgeon
Say, "good luck" before.
Sun's gone in,
It's raining now.

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Maintaining the world is determined by controlled subconscious energy that makes up existence as a form of matter which in effect mettle's with humanities identity nodes in phenomenon mode pleasures contently raptures jovially in euphoria transported from delight merriment underneath skin deep.
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Fingers twined
My Love's hand blends with mine
together we stroll
among the Ripened Wheat

the Sun bows low,
bids good night,
sets the sky alight
with a million Hues
of blue and red
while we gaze -
at the rising moon

My free hand picks
a strand of wheat
jovially I tickle
the nape of her neck

the Night lights up
With her playful smile
as she gives chase
through the Ripened Wheat

grasping my arm
as I grasp hers
we lie down together
there, in the field

her full red lips
so soft and moist -
mine meets hers,
there in the field

one by one
my fingers conquer
pearl white buttons
that eagerly yield
without a fight

her black silk bra
gracefully surrenders
unmatched by the beauty
that it contains

Levi jeans
are simply no challenge
as the zipper
races down
with sheer excitement!

Gentle fingers run down
from Rosy red cheeks
and gently caress
Her gorgeous long neck

lower they venture
her heart beats faster
my lips caress hers
as my lithe fingers
find her *******

so delicately soft
with ******* *****
I kiss, her exquisite chest

she lowers her head
her chest rises to meet me
while my teeth gently nibble
her excited hard ******

Her legs now move
apart in anticipation
as my right hand glides
beneath the black silk g-string

Intense Heat
guides my fingers
as they slide in the moisture
on shaven skin

wider apart,
she invites me in
as the g-string slips down,
past cute toes

There in the field,
among the Ripened Wheat
my Love and I
unite ourselves
in Body and Mind

our souls sing in unison
our gentle rhythm,
as One increases.

Passion together
Sweat with sweat
our bodies cling together
while we Come together

Sheer bliss
Fills every fibre
There in my newly Ripened
Field of Dreams!

Would the song bird's
Sweet melodic tweets
Be as well heard
And as jovially received
If he had no one to please?

Would the mighty ant
Work so ferverously
If he had not a constraint
To honor his Queen unquestioningly?

Would the gentle bee,
Giving life to all of Nature
Pollinate the fruit and the trees
Without the sweetness of the nectar?

Does the sun that gives me warmth,
Shining on my apple cheeks
Bring me bliss with its hearth,
And expect nothing and has no needs?

All of Nature and all of Life
Revolves around fulfillment and pleasure.
Yet the sun, this ball of light,
Has no reason to deliver.

I thank the birds, the bees, and the trees
For giving me this moment of splendor.
Yet they are already well fulfilled -
It is the sun who satisfies our wills
While it burns, oblivious, in its slumber.

fancy trender
the algorithms adore me
bits and bites love me
girlfriends gush over
what i write
the promises and perjury i pour out
though other few find it fascinating
a collection of casual carousers
deeply drunk and delirious
leer and like
fumble through and follow
these wild words

which

long for your love
and admonish apathy
say something
anything at least
jovially jeer
praise pompously

i rest
with my hands on the home keys
derive inspiration
from insignificant minutia
and you read
and read
taking a break from your home row
hum drum
flaccid
"oh thats nice"
NEXT

dont read and not write
i give not two
i should say ***
but i wont
i dont care
how inarticulately evil
you chose to be
but you must write

say something
start a conversation
engage your fellow artist

what else are we doing here
if not to inspire
it was never an endeavor
to impress our friends
was it
we found this place
for any kind of outlet
a chance to give breath
to the lightening in our bottles

this is our march
on the collective consciousness
that could be called washington
london
but when we march
we hold hands
chant
sing
speak with one another
and form bonds
and that should be done here too

without those acts
we are protestant pastors
banging on pulpits
toward a parish
that no longer exists
or if they do
never say "amen"

amen

In the midst of a moonlit avenue,
You and I stumbled jovially across the pavement,
Giggling at each other’s absurd motions
Only to both tumble backwards.

With the evening’s beer still fresh on my lips,
I took a reckless dive at a kiss
But to my surprise you reacted with oblivious indifference,
As if my gesture was forgettable as an irksome breeze.

Instead, you reclined comfortably on the cement,
Letting your rippling hair flow in the caressing starlight,
And marveled at the celestial luminescence above us;
A million petite crystals dancing over our heads.

“One day you will find me waltzing with the stars,”
You said, rocking your head back and forth as if
Mystical ballroom music were playing in your mind.
“And I’ll shine like a lantern in the night sky.”

Perhaps it was a alcohol conjured vision,
But I could have sworn the pearls of your eyes
Glowed as the words glided off of your lips,
Ascending into the midnight sky.

I may have never known your name,
Or from where you came,
But I know your final destination.

When a shooting star streaks through space
Dabbing the night in a silvery melody,
I’d like to think that it is you,
Waltzing in ecstasy across the moonlit sky.

The elephants are dancing on the ballroom floors
prim as pachyderms can possibly be.
They are flaunting their tusks jovially about
and stepping on no one's feet.

The charlatans trace enigmatic scores
with their heel-toe trot around the beasts.
Each dip, each spin, a calculated route,
graceful and ever discrete.

Their skin, I've heard, is full of sores;
chafed by every whisper and nod.
The music is fading and shoulders are tense
listening to the hardwood creak.

She jovially jumped at the jester's jokes.
He scornfully scowled at her silly spirit.

Two people perpetually poised and primped.
Yet, so unlike, unique, and uncannily uncomfortable with one another.

The girl gleefully grinning at the grimace she glued on George's face.
George stomped away staring with stone-cold stature.

Young hearts unaware of their fate. Unaware that one day they would love.

Fiercely, furociously, finally falling.
Loving, lending, learning.

Together.

Adoringly applauding
Arrogant acrobatic aristocratic,
Bourgeois bad-boys.
Braving boredom and bills,
Caught controlling criminal
Circles like a circus.
Daring to do, and to deceive
Desperate damsels in distress,
Each accepting enemies.
Everyone explaining elements
From the final fights
Frought with frustration.

Getting groovy- grown old
Garnering glittering gold.
Holidaying in Getafé,
Holding onto hands of harlots,
Implying impotence and insolence,
Ignorant in their ilk.
Jovially joking,
Jesting about juvenile jealousies;
"I kissed Katie Kurtis"
Knowingly comments one kid.

Left to love and lose,
Like Caesar and his laurels,
Making music and malice,
Manifesting manic malpractices.
Natalie narrates,
"Not now, not ever".
Obvious obstacles avoided,
Objectifying objects that are obsolete.
Praying, pondering over pros,
False prophets photographed as they pose.

Qualifying quangos,
Quantitative quelling of queries,
Raising riots and runctions,
Realising regal and royal remedies,
Celebrating summer solstice,
Solitude is bliss.
Try tampering telephones
To transcribe threat of treason,
Unreal unilateral promises
Unwound by underlying urchins.
Vowing to voice very real values,
Vox pop video views.
Wearing water coloured wellingtons,
Wondering over wax cuneiform works.

Xylophone playing exemplary,
Xavier exists in the imaginary.
Yearly yearning for you,
You're yoked as Gonne with Yeats
(unequally)
Zeroing in on Ritz and Rubble,
Rubble the Zealots want to reign.

The beggar quenches his thirst
The clerk fill his bottle must
From its spout pouring water’s gush

Don’t ask one belongs to which class!

In the conglomerate of disparity
It stands a symbol of equity
At everyone’s beck and call

Flowing for one and all!

It’s like for all one stop
Pause here a thief and a cop
Throats parched in summer heat

Get cooled in its reviving treat!

An oasis on any sun-burnt day
Its sparkling drops seem to jovially say
Come friend get cooled in my gush

*I’ll never ask you your class!

​
​​Voices, voices,
All the time,
Dark, darker voices,
Voices of mine,
Voices, voices,
To mess up my mind
Voices more voices, more all the time
Voices and voices and voices aligned

I really wonder, what's the point?
they're like the ocean,
While I'm like a knee joint
You may find that weird but I promise it's true,
They bend and break me till I snap in two

Why are they here?
I wish others could see
The things that these voices do to me
I cry out,
And they laugh
It doesn't matter the pain in the aftermath
If I died, they would jovially rejoice,
And I would too, if they were out of my mind

They call em insane and they call me psychotic,
Do they not know how the words hurt?
It doesn't matter how I seem to them,
Forever and ever, I can't always bend
So I silently cry wishing for the end

They always said I had a lack of emotion,
Yet never understood my mind's complex locomotion,
Or how to love, I practice utmost devotion

Why do they haunt me?
Take him instead
Why do they haunt me from all ends?
There's no escaping form what's in my mind,
I know that because they're there all the time

Please someone help?
Get them out of my head...
Why h why, can't I just be dead?
They whisper so quietly, sometimes I forget,
But they always come back before I can take a rest
Even sleep haunts me now, the little that I get,
Every second I'm down is a second I regret
Things could get better, I guess
But somehow that's something it never gets

Voices, voices,
All the time,
Dark, darker voices,
Voices of mine,
Voices, voices,
To mess up my mind
Voices more voices, more all the time
Voices and voices and voices aligned

The voices indeed do whisper to me,
Convinced I should do this deed,
So I pull the trigger and out of my head I do bleed

I met someone a long time ago
There was an elegant air around her
She looked around at
The filth surrounding us
Almost like she was a queen
Looking at a problem
She didn’t know how to fix

I knew immediately we had to speak

Suddenly, unpredictably,
She was living in my home
Sleeping in my bed
Sharing my secrets and
Divulging her own
Her things were all around me
In this tiny, little room
With one green wall
And all of her things
They covered my things
So I began to wish there was  
Distance between us

And then there was

My room felt empty
My bed felt cool
And something felt
Terribly wrong

We met again, unpredictably
In the same state
That wasn’t our own
I knew her instantly
She looked around
Like she was a queen
Looking at a problem
She didn’t want to fix
She seemed more jaded now
The way we’d both become
Traveling in the chasm
Of all that distance

We drank martinis
In the unfamiliar way we
Used to do
Jovially discussing how we’d both
Lost that hopeful glow
Her skin was still so
Dewy
Soft, and young, and fresh
But she was heavy
Heavier than I’d ever seen her
Heavy in a way we can’t
Quantify with a scale
She watched me with
A careful affection
Proud but weary
And I doted on her
With the same admiration
She loved to overlook

We parted ways again

Now she’s angry
I dared to claim
She was worth more
Because of loyalty
She responds
To my overtures
Until we have the chance
To meet again
Silence
My heart begins to ache
As my fears
Become true
The one-sided affair
Takes its next victim

Transition 8 silent months

To glamorous shoots
You have to pay
To see
I think back to the
First time we ever met
And wonder how
Two people can look the same
But be so different
I see the queen forget
She wears her crown
And assert that she
Never claimed the throne
At all

I know who you are
But

I don’t know how this story ends

**** Toy

Cold, clad, silicone, scraggly straggling down the street,
Twisting, bending, folding to every person they meet,
Shift its face, smile, frown, cry or moan,
Not much bothers the man of silicone,

Wrestle jovially with it till your hearts content,
Till your ego satisfied, strokes your pride,
Small stains on silicone thighs,
It bends back into shape,

Down a crowded street it walks alone,
A friend to be used, whatever for,
Rolling with whatever’s in store,
It weeps alone, as it revs into a roar,

It guesses what it’s like to truly be alive,
Maybe not have to give,
But it has no bone or blood,
Manufactured, reflected social facets of false, foul virtues,

Able to spot a mask,
Complete any given task,
Its whole body is a mask, a tool,
It lives, but it is not alive,

Down a crowded street it walks alone,
End of the day draws near, hollow to the core,
White, bruised bled stains,
It weeps alone and it revs into a roar,

Its lover covers it in kisses,
“This is what it’s like to be in love.”
Its words hollow and pseudo as sin,
The silicone man knows not of authentic feeling,

Only fingered lust that stains synthetic skin,
It has programmed thoughts, cares and worries,
Confident none belong to it,
“What is an ‘I’?” Wailing for identity,

Other then a doll for use,
The **** toy doesn’t see abuse,
Only utilitarian ways to be,
Excuse after excuse not to see,

In misery,
Under guise of pain and woe,
It tries to be alive, confused,
Under god towed sky,

He screeches to the heavens,
“I am I!”
The sky calls back with a clap of angry thunder,
Down an empty street it walks alone,

Alone, alone, it can not desire or condone,
Not much bothers the man of silicone,
Synthetic, eyes, mouth, fingers and ******* sore,
It weeps alone and it revs into a roar...

Ever since I immersed from the womb,
I swam against the tide,
Never learning the easy way

People around me have always wondered,
‘What creature is this?’
‘Why does she stand alone?’

Sometimes my arms get tired,
And my legs grow weak,
The smooth sailing ships often stop,
With its jovial passengers,
Offering me a spot in their carefree crew,
To join them as they let the vast, mighty sea determine their destination,
Never having to give it a second thought,
But never do I give in

As they would dance jovially in their uniform way,
I would be off-beat,
Hearing my own song,
The one inside


I would much rather be alone,
Dancing through life the same as I always do,
Intrinsically.

It was noon when the wise man approached me.
In his hand he carried a one hour sandglass,
Jovially bellowing upon every grain that trickled down.
So absorbed was he that clearly time didn't matter;
'For another two steps and he woulda crushed me and his hourglass.
"Woah timely sir!
It seems you've run out of seconds!"
I exclaimed
"Might I inquire about what is so important within this hour?"

The Sands slowed their decent as his gaze shifted...
His eyes fixated,
Everything froze...
Including the final grain,
Floating,
In its chalice.

He spoke to me.

"Given the choice between an
Hour...
Minute...
Second...
Which would you be?"

Curious I told him
"One hour"
To his reply
"There's only 24 of those in a day,
Think bigger."

Playing along I invoked
"The minute"
As he chuckled
"Though indeed bigger,
1440 is still too small.
Think larger."

Confused I queried
"A second?"
Not quite catching on

The laughing ended as he lifted his clock.
Silence reigned.
My eyes shifted to the immobile grain,
Hypnotic in its suspension,
When finally the fellow spoke above me:

"I hope you now understand the significance
Of 86400 moments."
Just before he turned the glass
To walk away.

in the muddied waters where corpses float
the moon shimmers on the lazy surface
of a tired stream, gliding on it
with the ease meant for those
that dream during sunny days
and those that ravage the stormy nights
but how can I pursue my joy
when it runs
from me
I gallop on the coast of life
yet coasting on its slide
contradicting myself in every way

I see the eyes of my estranged breeze
as she jovially brushes the branches of trees
as she makes once lifeless leaves fly
as she caresses each cheek
only mine remains unkissed
and yet she flows on
leaving me behind
so I ignore her
never asking for readmittance
back into her torrential storms
to suffer with glee
the hailstones of her affection
instead I built myself a shelter
and hid myself
from her gloried love

in an oakened parlour
where a private man sits
his brows furrow
face hardened
by the whips of life
his calloused hands
stay steady
as his breath shallows
eyes scan the room
searching for her
needing her presence
here in his last hour
as he sits in his prison
a castle devoted to him
vacuumed of all air
his heart beats slower
eyes scan the room
searching for her
needing her presence
here in his last hour
his glance rests
at the tinted window
and he is able to peer
outside
and see his breeze
still rustling about
with disagreeable fellows
those not worthy of her touch
he would break down those doors
gladly
to dance once more in the rain

instead, I sit, a private man
alone, with no companion
watching my breeze
engulf the world
with her dance
the shimmering wisps
of autumn's hair
rays of sun
like spears in the air
piercing through flesh and soul
arrows of Eros doing their duty
and all around
my castle of isolation
lay everyone
blissfully torn by the steel of love
breathless, while I still breathe
my breeze neglects me
for I was not worthy
I did not rise
to meet her challenge
I refused
to adhere to her demand
her demand
that…
simply…
I must love her.

I will be a dad more than just a father,
I’ll name my daughter after her mother.
If I have a son then it’s all for the better
My love for them I’ll express it in letters.
So they can have my exact words long after I’m gone,
As they bless the day in this world they were born.
They won’t be ashamed of me in the midst of the peers,
For they know their dad will never bring them to tears.
Through their life time I’ll inspire them to be like me
With overwhelming encouragement to follow their dream.
I’ll be the kind of dad who doesn’t bring work at home,
work be gone home time is for me and my kids alone
I’ll call their mum thrice a day when I am away,
ask her to deliver lots of kisses and hugs there way.
I’ll make them believe their dad is the strongest alive,
With the courage to tear apart a live bee hive.
I’ll be the kind of dad who drops his kids to school,
While I promise them we will meet again soon.
The kind of dad who call his kids by their nick names,
And In return they also do the same.
I will teach them the greatest thing from above,
Which is not how to love but how to be loved.
I’ll show my kids what’s right and wrong,
As I let them know home is where they belong.
I will respect the decisions they make,
And for each birthday I will bake a cake.
More than a father I will be a dad,
The thought of that gets me jovially mad

Now and then it happens
unexpectedly
that someone smells like you
looks and laughs like you

suddenly begins to dance
just like you
or, out of the blue
says words you once said

At a reception in a large building
I see a man talking to a woman
and yes, I long for you
because of him, his constitution

"Hey, don't you remember me?
Come on!" he laughs jovially
It's him, and not, I know him
differently, cooler, more special

We start a neutral talk
in search of a goal
that is empty
not defended or too late

we play by feeling
neither of us is free
we fail to come closer
in public and to match again

This subdued wordsmith
doth not rack his brains to **** fess appeal
toward one household pop starlet.

He blithely, nonchalantly, and willingly
add mitts audiological enjoyment, sans the lithe
hot feline Taylor Swift - I might be
the only baby boomer ****** mwm,
who admires this talented singer/songwriter,
yet owns NO (absolute zero)  
aspirations beyond composing poems or prose
toward divine dame.

A questionable attempt to stitch together –
analogous to knot sew swift a tailor,
this scribe sought to create a poem
(crafted countless years ago)
from her then song titles spanning
the letter “A” to the letter “H.”

Despite never setting eyes
(AND MOST Definitely NOT PAWS),
this grateful dead corpse of a skeleton
(essentially lovely bare bones),
when alive I found one gal powerhouse,
(asper the title of this informal homage)
genuinely fashioned, entirely
dutifully composed, benevolently addressed
as an attraction among
the wonders of the
world wide web, confidently enduring,
gracefully immensely known,
mainly not overly prone to quibble
regarding her less outstanding
musical and lyrical confections.

This doggone muttering pooch
bow wows against
nattering nabobs of negativism
able, eager, ready, and willing
bugaboos countering, dispelling, excoriating...
courtesy unsustained denunciations
against latent natural born talents
of aforementioned musician,
whereby pulp magazines make mincemeat
hammering, nailing, and wrenching
storied accomplishments
never yanking off the top of list
of solo women musical artists
who sold the most number one albums.

Before the advent vis a vis
crafting this literary challenge
incorporating a poetic endeavor
predicated on prolific tunes
comprising audiophile of Taylor Swift,
(and thus a prescript interim),
as iterated above,
a whim took hold to string
her partial song playlist
(quite substantial even up to
BUT NOT including the letter “I”).

This scribe dabbled, hocked, and limned
what evolved into a semi satisfactory effort,
to articulate, copacetic, enigmatic, generic,
ironic, kinetic, magnetic, opportunistic,
quixotic, scholastic, ultra democratic,
holistic yik yak paddy whack
give this bard a bon bon.

Adieu admit to elaborating, jovially,
and openly leave readers second guessing,
(what might easily be labeled,
misconstrued, and nullified as gobbledygook),
asper how mashup song titles
got figuratively slapped together
as a feebly note worthy attempt
to put down sew sew pontoon
swiftly tailored literary bridges
in an effort to connect a cumbersome,
fulsome, and irksome pseudo
straight forward itemized songs
sung by said seductive singular sylph..

Thee Mademoiselle found,
or made a place in the world for yourself
aching like a boy out in left field
pining to catch that high fly
there ain't nothing 'bout you,
(nor Brooks and Dunn) I can attest
even if hypothetically,
we spent eons at an all night diner,
where culinary staff knew thee all too well
and perhaps all you wanted
(shared with Michelle Branch)
perhaps positing the rhetorical question –
am I ready for love?

With an American boy
or a ***** best buddy
re: best friend forever with an American girl
if someone got cross, tis beneficial
(in this one republic) to apologize
regardless, whom ye choose as a confidante,
the following refrain plays in your mind
baby don't you break my heart slow
(at least according to Vonda Shepard)
memories no doubt arise,
when thee hapt to be a baby girl

thoughts unspool back to December
beautiful eyes peered
at a fractured reflection
before the love story
would begin again,
while ebbing, and flowing with my baby
recalling Bette Davis' eye
(taking visual delight
fantastic world tour live)
reminding self how better off
the choice made

tis much better than revenge
but umpteen times bother I will
asper boys and love
combustible mix – nonetheless
always reminding myself to breathe
deep, cuz being breathless
likened to a taste of death,
(I admit better than Ezra)
learning how to act points back
asper being brought up that way
lessons oft learned getting busted.

Oh...and by the way can I go with you?

Can you feel the love tonight?

Discern ache kin to sand castles crumbling?

Such granular, or solid state matter
doth forced to change
attested to by chaperone dads,
who dressed as Santa Claus invoked
that Christmas must be something more
especially, Christmases,
when you were mine
ah...closest to a cowboy
as “sigh” ever got
or tasting Gunstock rattlesnake pulverized,

yet countenance goose
(and found you under the care of Chet Atkins
at the make believe medical center)
shivered flesh against cold as you
though desiring thee to come back...he here
no doubt prone
to announce crazier requests asked
even crazier (as demonstrated
by flash mob generated
by Hannah Montana, one live wire)

if able to glean my sentiments...
cross my heart
aware as an adult feeling
the life source of daddy
or mommy, while hinting
with a stone temple piloted cold stare
double dare you to move
(or switchfoot), one to another
das feet – planted within
pitch dark blue Tennessee

dwelling with thoughts
of ma dear Digdan
or writing an imaginary letter
starting...”dear John”
ample melancholy maudlin material
to completely bind a diary of me
yes concert cavorting circumstances
avoidable, though didn't they
make chase like butterflies,
and don't they hate me for loving you?

So please don't tell me you want to,
when I don't want to anymore
argh, yet impossibly unshakable
the recurring thought don't you
act indiscriminately
as when down came the rain,
washed the spied her out
following suit (wet)
drenching yea...one drama queen
with chin amen along pearl
(jammed) harbor drive
(in conjunction with alan jackson)
presaging Jiving drops of Jupiter
(train chugging, clacking, clattering
railing gestalt of alien nation),

and all of a sudden like how odd though...
thinking about eighth grade graduate,
when lifetime seemed enchanted
now everything has changed
eyes open (“hunger games”)
maketh me – fall back on you
instant messaging you –
fall into me fearless,
though only fifteen
and how against pyrotechnics,
you find your way back home
on the fourth of July
perhaps led by a zeppelin sized firefly
ah, I ask myself who is the foolish one?

Me for you forever & always
(a platinum edition)
for girl at home
(donned in deluxe edition)
going bananas
in reference to Amazing Gracie
swaggering, and immune
to gunpowder & lead,
(whose leading lady Miranda Lambert)
whatsapp penned left her looking haunted
heartbreaker – (my words –
like the late Tom Petty)
about her, but unsure
if our thoughts aligned

anyway, here you go again (Dolly Parton)
a hero heroine
so...I clamor to yell out “hey soul sister”
and hey Stephen
along the boulevard of broken dreams,
this ribbon highway don't care
about trumpeting his lies
nor desecrating holy ground
honey baby, yes ye in the mom jeans,
I feel hopelessly devoted to you
(as didst Olivia Newton)
instinctively keen how to save a life
bobbing buoyantly amidst the fray.

While on the topic
of blood kith and kin,
I relate another
fabricated poem about
blimey bloke of a fisherman.

Courtesy webbed whirled wide net wit
cursing thwarted life,
liberty and pursuit of happiness
if eavesdropper, you would discern
nasality – cause uvula split
holed within mancave unit b44,
a regular run of the mill hermit.

Any resemblance between
said character and living persons
purely (off fish shilly) coincidental
material scoured from dregs
of me muss held head.

I shore up a vignette to free
my ("FAKE") grandfather Hymie,
whose scrunched countenanced
evinced beetle that of browed monkey
he spent his entire life at sea
his thick calloused hands
and ruddy complexion
reinforced non verbal body language
voluminous tomes smoothed
nick holed money

to countless years
(spilling into decades)
exposed to salty spittle nee
where watery terrain spewed
raw elements piscine
art finest artisanal blended, crafted, nein
mean feet resources dredged reluctantly
relinquished by mother nature mean
craftily pared within
each trough and crest

found thee old man
with privateer mean
mien whose skin fiercely weatherbeaten
leathery and lean,
epidermis tanned tough
as rawhide, reptilian, prithee
chafed skin to me
not surprising, since
this mariner born,
bred and near lee

schooled within briny
deep ever since knee
high (or so he claimed truth
to swirling rumor), jovially
pleased that his purportedly
learnin' myth writ tik ne'r included
NEVER settn' foot in formal classroom,
his knowledge icy
anecdotes aced, surpassed,
and trounced that of what he

referred to as grenadier landlubbers
green behind the ears – glee
fully jabbing with his
unsheathed scabbard play flea
actually downplaying any exploits,
that didst educate him, 'ee
got taut learn'n survival skills asper
pre ponder hunt via
eddy fied tests frequently dee
siding a life or death outcome,

yet our Dickensian
mutually bonding friendship
via shared exploits while
he dressed not in tatters,
but self made clothes from cree
chores comfortable furs, and though
a striking appearance cut, ne'r
did this ole codger (fit as a fiddle
with tall slender build),
said middle aged man
appeared quite becoming.

An aura, charisma, dogma
amazingly graced stalwart, gestalt,
deportment aie
found added an air
of charming debonair,
esteeming flair, genteel heir
which tasked guessing years old,
aye presumed him
to exit the uterine lair

at least a few score
tours round oblate sphere
as aspect of youthfulness
played across his eyes
one colored green
like a spring day in the country,
the other jetblue sans burnin'
man four score and seven
pearl jam oyster cult year.

I imagine the thoughts of death so much
It feels as though they were of a distant memory
Fiddling with my past glory leaving behind my legacy
Impulsively charging to the end upholding my chivalry
A visionary dying for a dream that was revolutionary  
I was dying for greatness, dying to be part of history
Now that I lay dying I forgot how to truly live in own my stories
the sun has risen and cleared the mist morning has begun
flames upon candles flicker out and I too shall soon be gone
The world was my garden it was wide enough for me
I have sown the seeds of my limits and that of my victories
I have written songs to be sang to the nation I was born to revelry
Blood I have offered and shed yet never to hear such sweet symphonies
with a burning bleeding desire I threw myself pursuit
Laying a strong foundation enough to pass it on to you
Yet I was always occupied fearing the loss of time
I ask if I have I spent them well and wise, haven’t I?
I was too young and blind to see those I love had put aside
I would've known better than to think nothing of my honor and pride
Now I shall be buried deep in the past of yesteryear's antiquity
I see glimpses of my comrades waving and waiting on the other side
Calling me to join the tranquil paradise waiting to be reunified
I ask how to say good-bye take your time they calmly replied
We are all waiting no need to haste as they stand jovially reside
Memories of our youths that once chant and drank to good health and liberty
I raise my arms and cry out to freedoms grand infinity
I hear ringing of bells it golden melody melts
I am fated to fade away as snow is to spring
My time is up death is calling me to rise up to its cold embrace
Eager to guide and cross the line to which I am still anxiously afraid
Am I a hero or a villain? Am I a slave or a freeman?
Have I risen above as of both sinner and saint?
I am but a man filled with mistakes and talents to show
How will you remember me or would you forget me so
The seeds I planted I shall never see them blossom and grow
This shall be my testament my gravestone that I have sown
and to those who still breathe my name
keep that of my memory me embers a flame
I have fired my shot I have aimed it above the heavens high
its gunfire echoes loud so all may hear I have taken and did my time
I wish I could have done even more but I know you could do better
I leave this note to you in a world of grim call your courage in this letter
The world was my garden it is yours to keep and let it be known
That this world was wide enough for all to tend and own